Ascension: The Silver Spears

by Define Anachronistic

(AU) Harry Potter is different. No one is more aware of this than him. His relatives acknowledge his existence only when necessary and despite growing up surrounded by creature comforts, everything he has ever owned is either a hand me down, stolen, scavenged or lent to him out of pity. He has no one to rely on. He tells himself that he prefers it that way. But no man is an island.

8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER SIX

Spark of Ambition

Harry dropped to the ground and rolled out of the way. The chair he had just been sitting in a moment ago was now wrapped in ropes. He rolled under a table and flipped it over, using it as a barrier between him and his attacker.

Drawing his wand, he decided not to play it so cautiously this time around. Pointing his wand over his barrier he cast "Flipendo!" His spell sailed out of his sight, but judging from the lack of sound, he hadn't caught his adversary.

Just as he began to think of a backup plan, there was a gentle poke on the crown of his head. Looking up, he saw the now familiar pleasant smile of Professor Quirrell. "Got you." He said, with the air of an adult playing hide and seek with a toddler. It was accurate to their current standings, but it still felt like an insult in Harry's mind.

"I would prefer it if you just incapacitated me, instead of this humiliation." Harry sighed as he got to his feet. "I learn better that way."

Quirrell actually seemed to consider it. "You may be on to something. Our first two meetings, you were caught by my initial binding spell, but today you made sure to get out of the way."

Harry shrugged. "Even dogs learn from negative reinforcement." Quirrell actually laughed at that.

It was only their third meeting, but Harry still felt annoyed that he hadn't yet gotten a good grasp on Quirrell's personality. This disturbed him, as he was generally quite good at determining a person's character. His new tutor, however, seemed like something of a contradiction. He spoke and treated Harry with care, as though he were made of glass, but, more than once, he had caught his Defence Professor looking at him from the corner of his eye with cold disappointment, as though he had expected more from the Boy Who Lived.

You're not the only one mate, Harry thought. He was still annoyed with his lacklustre performance in class. It was now the last day of September, and in all that time his improvement had only been marginal by his own assessment. His teachers had seemed pleased that his classwork had improved to the near top of his class, but Harry knew that was only because he spent almost all his free time studying and practicing ahead in the privacy of his dorm.

With his extracurriculars, he was barely managing to stay afloat. He swallowed a groan as he thought of all the clubs he had joined. They were just extra opportunities for him to embarrass himself. Potions and Charms were a given, but even the rest of the Language Club was leaving him behind. His mind was oddly resistant to Translation Charms, so while the other Muggle raised and Muggle-born students were working on their second or even their third languages, Harry was still struggling with Mandarin.

What was going to happen come December, during the end of term exams? Students like Anthony and Terry, who seemed to spend all their time on recreational matters, would get serious about studying and leave him behind again.

"You haven't experienced it yet." Harry was shaken out of his thoughts by Quirrell's voice. The man was leaning against the teacher's desk in the abandoned classroom they had now met three times in, arms folded, looking cool in a way that Michael Corner could only dream of.

"Experienced what?"

Quirrell was still smiling, but now it was unfocused, his eyes staring right past Harry, lost in memory. "Every witch or wizard worth their Mana has experienced a moment where they finally discover where their talents lie. It might be in any of the Esoteric Arts, a sub-field so niche that most might consider it useless, but when that moment arrives you won't care because, for maybe the first time in your life, you know exactly what it is you want to do. What you're meant to do."

If this was meant to make Harry feel better, it was not working. "What if my moment never comes?"

Quirrell shrugged. "Then you never had any talent to begin with." Even though Harry was certain his face had remained impassive, Quirrell seemed to sense his sudden distress. "You're not even a month into your education. Most people haven't even figured themselves out by the time they graduate. You're fine." He moved his hand back and forth as if to wave away Harry's concerns.

"Now, have you practiced your Basic Three like I asked?" Harry nodded, a little unsurely. He had practiced "every duellist's bread and butter" all week, but just like almost every other spell he had cast, it had proven difficult. The Disarming Charm, Stunning Spell and Shield Charm, were all basic duelling spells. Unlike schoolyard hexes, it wasn't unusual to see them being used in professional duels and by Aurors in the field. At least, according to Quirrell.

Harry turned to face the targets on the wall and raised his wand, but his heart wasn't really in it. Myrose and Fredrick hadn't attacked him since that day. They hadn't even looked his way. They seemed too busy being hated by their entire house, who blamed them for their current fourth place standing for the House Cup.

Without this looming threat, Harry's interest in Martial Magic was waning. Maybe his "moment" would come, but he doubted it would ever be in this field.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

September had been a busy month. Harry had gone to the Hospital Wing during his second week, along with the rest of the Muggle raised first years. According to Flitwick, it was necessary to receive their vaccinations. "Wizards cannot be affected by mundane diseases, but believe me, you are not invulnerable. This is more than necessary. You don't want a case of Dragon Pox or, Great Sage forbid, Spattergroit. That'll ruin your year."

With this warning ringing in his ears, Harry followed the others without complaint to the Hospital Wing. However, when he was sitting in Madam Pomfrey's office, alone as Doctor-Patient confidentiality was universal apparently, he learned he needn't have come at all.

"Your file says that you received the vaccination only two months ago, and the diagnostic charm only confirms it. Are you sure you don't remember?" Harry only knew of one time when that could have happened; The few hours he had been unconscious under Professor Jones' care.

He didn't let how much this unsettled him show on his face, as waved away Pomfrey's concerns, smiling, as he said something about a forgetful memory. As he made his way back to Divination, he tried to put it from his mind. It was just a vaccination; Hestia was probably trying to help a poor Muggle raised kid. Still, he made a mental note to master the diagnostic charms that monitored vaccinations. He wanted to be absolutely sure that he could trust his own body.

"You're as pale as a ghost." Anthony said, as Harry sat at his and Terry's table. Harry forced a smile.

"You wouldn't believe the size of the needle Pomfrey jabbed me with."

"Why would she jab you with a needle?" Terry asked, looking relieved that something was distracting him from Trelawny's nonsense. Harry explained what a needle was and saw polar reactions from the brothers, interest for Terry, horror in Anthony.

"I thought it was bad enough that Muggle Healers cut their patients open, but to stab little kids? That's just awful." Harry thought this was more than a little dramatic, and judging by Terry's eye roll, he wasn't the only one.

"You must excuse him. He's a little baby when it comes to Healer stuff." Anthony protested, but Trelawney shushed them.

Harry couldn't blame Anthony for his aversion when he thought about it. Hospitals must be an incredibly difficult environment for him to deal with.

The third week marked the preliminary rounds of the Triwizard Tournament, but it was over for Hogwarts as soon as it began. When he had awoken on his third Saturday, after a rare lie in, the entire common room seemed to be in a bad mood. It was worse than it was on Wednesday evening when someone set off half a dozen dung-bombs on the Seventh-Year study group, (everybody knew it was either Eddie or Maria, but the Prefects couldn't prove it, and no one wanted to snitch).

Harry approached his friends at their usual corner by the windows. "What's up with everyone?" He asked, after thanking Anthony for asking an automaton to bring him a breakfast tray, (technically not against school rules, but frowned upon, at least according to Penelope, as she passed by).

Anthony glanced around, making sure no one was listening. "The Triwizard preliminaries are in their final rounds."

Harry nodded. It had been going on all week, he had enjoyed watching the beautiful opening ceremony along with the rest of the house, but that didn't explain the mood.

Terry was scowling at the Odeon at the centre of the sitting side of the room. "Our Triumvirate just got humiliated. They couldn't even crack the Top 8."

Harry turned to look at the Odeon. It was a cloud of mist, with a floating spherical disc underneath that could change size, as necessary. It was similar to a television, as it often played Quidditch games, musical performances, and even shows of varying genres (even a few Muggle ones) but the visuals were so much clearer, the colours, the sharpness of the images, all of it. From whatever angle you were sitting at, it felt like it was perfectly placed for your eyes. The image wasn't distorted at all.

Right now, the Odeon was playing on mute, which was quite unusual in Harry's limited experience. There were often fights about what to watch, but no one had ever asked to turn off the sound before. Harry would have if he had known it was an option.

Across the intangible screen, were words and statistics that Harry couldn't make heads or tails of. "Explain it to me like I've just entered a whole new world." Anthony snorted but Terry didn't even crack a smile. It was even worse than he had first thought.

"All the Wizarding schools compete every three years in order to prove that they're the best institution. Every school. Even the tiny little day schools. Most kids in the world learn from their family or community covens or even their local Auror Citadels, so of course they're permitted too. As long as they can put three students and a trainer forward, they can compete. Over a Thousand teams attend every time." Harry still didn't get it.

"So, Hogwarts got to the Top 16? In the whole world? That's dead impressive!" Harry's voice must have gotten a little too loud, as both of the other boys shushed him hastily, as though he were about to be killed for spilling state secrets. They both looked around to see if anyone else had heard him, but no one was paying them even the slightest bit of attention. Not the slightest bit of attention to him. Which was so unusual, it only made it more clear how much this affected the school.

Terry tutted. "You don't get it. Elite schools like Hogwarts are rare. There are only eleven of them in the whole world, and they only accept the best from their regions. Hogwarts should be Top 8 on its worst day. But we haven't even qualified for the Top 8 duels since, well, since your parents were a part of the Triumvirate."

Harry remembered Hagrid saying something about that but had forgotten about it until now. "Did they win?"

Anthony looked a little awkward. "Err… no. We haven't had a Hogwarts Triwizard Champion since the 40s. They made it to 2nd place though." He was surprised at Harry's relieved smile. Terry seemed to get it though as he chuckled at Harry's expression. It was just nice to know his parents weren't wholly perfect.

When the now former Triumvirate returned to school, they were treated rather coldly. The entire school had fallen into a dark mood, embarrassed by their performance, and even Dumbledore seemed to have it out for them.

On the night of their return, they had somehow managed to slip into the Great Hall without anyone noticing, but it was all ruined for them when the Headmaster stood and demanded everyone welcome them with a round of applause. He was the only one who clapped properly, but even as the other teachers joined in, half-hearted in their praise, it was Dumbledore's enthusiastic applause that came off as mocking. Hardly any of the students clapped at all and Harry noticed the Triumvirate looked as if they wanted to die on the spot. Harry felt like sinking into the ground just from being in the same room as them. It was painful to watch.

He did note that many on the Ravenclaw table seemed a little smug. Of course, none of the fallen heroes hailed from the House of the Wise.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Quidditch, a sport that was played in the air with hard leather balls coming at you at high speeds with the sole intention to knock you out of the air, was surprisingly mundane. No, that wasn't right. Quidditch practice was mundane.

Twice a week, the Ravenclaw Quidditch team met in the changing room, to go over strategy and practice tactics and Harry quickly learned not be too fussed by any of it. He flew his broom like his teammates showed him, practiced flying in front of Chasers to aid in their offensive manoeuvres and hunted and caught the Snitch only when he was told to.

Harry was just eager to learn and improve his game, which appealed him to Robert. He was diligent during practice, never messing around when he was in the air, which made Marcus happy. He was more than eager to trade jokes and mess around with Eddie and Maria before and after practice, and he often goaded them to try and hit him when he was in the air. They had come close several times, scaring the life out of him in the process, but Harry was too proud to back down from his initial challenge. He got along well with Fiona, as they were both members of the Charms Club and they spoke at length on the subject often. Like Anthony, Fiona wanted to be an Ingenieur when she graduated ("But only if I can't go pro." She added, clutching her broom tightly) and Harry liked to ask her questions about it. It was a good thing she was so patient with him, as anyone else would have told him to get lost by now.

The only person he didn't get along with was his own year mate. No matter how many times Harry tried to initiate a conversation, Michael always rebuffed him. It didn't help that he seemed to get more and more irritable with him as time went on.

Every time Harry did an impressive manoeuvre in the air, or he was praised by his teammates or, worst of all, was asked to stay behind by Robert so they could go over Seeker manoeuvres and tactics together, Michael's ire seemed to increase. At the beginning of September, he had merely seemed a little irritated, but by the end of the month Harry knew he wasn't alone in noticing anymore. How could he be? The blonde boy's head looked like it was about to explode whenever Harry was around.

"Seriously, what is his problem?" Harry asked Robert as Michael stomped off the pitch.

Robert grimaced. "Be patient with him. My brother can be an immature little git, but he's just…" he waved his hands, as if to say something positive, but indefinable. Harry was focused, not with this ridiculous hand gesture, but on what he had just said.

"He's your brother?"

Robert was amused. "You didn't know?"

"Of course not! You have different surnames!"

For a brief moment, Robert looked as if he were about to explain why this was, but then a quick sly expression came and went from his face. "If you want to know, you're going to have to ask him."

That was how Harry found himself stalking Michael down a corridor on the second floor, long after midnight. Harry was hidden underneath his Invisibility Cloak, but his teammate was walking, brazen, down the corridor, wand tip lit, practically asking for another detention.

It had been a coincidence that Harry had spotted him. After an evening of Exploding Snap with his friends, Harry had decided to stay up in order to study Anthony's Runes notes, which were numerous, and his friend had been happy to lend them to him.

Sitting in a darkened spot of the study area, he spotted a familiar blonde head waltz fearlessly through the common room, towards the exit. Wanting to follow, Harry wished he had his Invisibility Cloak, as he packed away Anthony's notes into his bag. His breath caught as his fingers brushed against a familiar material. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out his Cloak. Which was strange, as he was sure he had left it locked away in the cherry wood box.

Deciding not to look a gift horse in the mouth (right now at least) Harry swung the cloak over his shoulders and pulled the hood over his head, running to catch up to Michael.

Harry followed the other boy through a nondescript doorway and into a long-abandoned classroom that looked like it had been slowly turned into a storage room. Tables were piled along the walls and chairs stacked precariously enough for Harry to be wary of an imminent collapse. Michael wasn't afraid though. Or rather he had been here so many times he knew the safest path to his goal.

The goal turned out to be a mirror. It was unusual, tall and ornate, with lettering written along the top. It was beautiful, yes, but Harry couldn't see what had Michael so enraptured. The other boy had sat down in front of the mirror, cross-legged, and was simply staring, transfixed, at his own reflection. Harry had not considered him to be the vain sort, at least in the traditional sense, but after a closer examination of both the mirror and the room at large, he couldn't see any other explanation for Michael's behaviour. Quickly growing bored, Harry made his way back to his dorm, leaving the other boy to his strange nocturnal past time.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Nothing else of interest had happened during the month. For a school of magic, Hogwarts had a surprisingly mundane school routine. Classes, extracurriculars, meals, homework and time to socialise; It was just like any other school in the world, albeit one which taught its students to master the world around them through their own innate arcane powers.

When October dawned, autumn followed. The leaves began to change colours, and a brisk chill arrived, chasing away the lingering summer heat. Clear skies were replaced by mist and fog, which only made the castle appear even more mystical than it had before.

The lingering animosity towards the Triumvirate seemed to finally fade away as the months changed, and Harry saw that the three Seventh Years looked much happier in the corridors now than they had been when they had returned. With all these changes came another new fact about Hogwarts for Harry to learn.

"What are Sentinels?" Harry asked, as he, Anthony and Terry joined the steady flow of the student body out of the castle and towards the Quidditch pitch.

"The Sentinels are the strongest twenty-four students in the school." Anthony explained, as they strolled leisurely along the lawn. "They're the best of the best."

"School rules don't really apply to them. Not showing up to class or doing homework doesn't really matter when you've already proven yourself." Terry looked jealous of this carte blanche. "Exam results technically still matter of course, but you can pretty much get any job you want if you've claimed a rank and managed to hold onto it all the way to graduation."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Hold onto it?"

Anthony smiled. "That's the beauty of it. Anyone can become a Sentinel, if they manage to defeat one in an official duel, that is."

They had arrived at the Quidditch pitch, but instead of taking his usual route to the changing rooms, Harry followed his friends up the stairs to the stands. Their small statures came in useful, as they were able to squeeze their way to the very front, by the railings. Harry couldn't hold back his surprise at what he now saw.

"I was only here yesterday! What the hell did they do to it?" The grassy pitch had been torn away to reveal the hard muddy earth beneath. There were rocks here and there, some larger than Hagrid, and a body of water off to one side. Other than that, the entire pitch was barren.

"The teachers will replace it." An upset voice said from his left. Michael was sitting beside him, and Harry had not even noticed his arrival. He was glaring at the teachers, sitting in a tight group, almost directly opposite them. Harry had the impression that he would make them regret it if they did not return the Quidditch pitch to its original state.

"Nice of you to join us, Mickey!" Terry said, happily. Michael turned his glare away from the teachers and onto Terry, making Harry regret his place in between them.

Before Michael could reply, Harry got up and moved to sit on Anthony's right-hand side, a polite, brown haired Hufflepuff Fourth Year making room for him. Neither Michael nor Terry seemed to notice as they descended into their regular semi-antagonistic back and forth. Anthony did however, as he smirked at Harry.

"What do the Sentinels even do anyway?" Harry asked, completely skipping over his cowardly flight.

Anthony shrugged. "Well, they help teachers with security, officially, but they mostly just duel each other to get higher rankings."

Harry frowned, thoughtfully. "The Triumvirate. They're the Top 3?"

Anthony nodded. "Only a Sentinel is even allowed to try out for the Triwizard Tournament, and you've got to get yourself into the Top 3 the year before to qualify."

"Today's just a challenge, because the next Tournament is years away." The Fourth Year next to him interrupted. His grey eyes were fixed on one of the changing room exits. He started, as though he had just realised, he was interrupting a private conversation. "Sorry." He apologised, gruffly.

"It's alright." Harry said, lightly. He recognised the boy, as Robert had pointed him out weeks ago. Cedric Diggory, the Hufflepuff Seeker.

Just as he was turning back to Anthony, both changing room exits opened at the same exact moment, as though it was pre-planned, and out stepped two vastly different individuals.

To his left, was a slim, dark haired Seventh-Year boy. He strode onto the pitch with confidence, an easy smile on his handsome face, and judging by the crowd's sudden cheers of "DANNY! DANNY!" he was rather popular.

To his right, a compact, muscular Fourth-Year girl walked onto the barren pitch, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and out of her face. It was only because of Cedric's sudden cheer of "GO ON ELIZA!" did Harry recognise her. Eliza Hawthorn. Christopher (who all the First Year Ravenclaws agreed was the worst Prefect in the tower by a mile) had made one or two crass comments about her to his friends when he was supposed to be tutoring them on Arithmancy. Apparently, he thought she was more than a bit stuck up.

Unlike her opponent, Eliza looked incredibly focused, almost on edge, with her jaw clenched tightly and her wand already drawn. Like the Seventh Year, Danny, she wore a form fitting black uniform, with light leather armour over her joints and torso, but with a green trim instead of red. Her wrist bracers were so tight that her onyx Ouroboros had to be worn on the outside of her uniform.

Danny wore a scarlet armband, and even from this distance, Harry could clearly see the Roman Numerals XXIV written in bold black against the deep red.

Harry almost jumped when a sudden voice boomed out across the stadium. "Today we have a challenger for the rank of the 24th Sentinel! Elizabeth Hawthorn of Slytherin has challenged Daniel Gregson of Gryffindor!" Harry glanced across the stadium, towards the teachers' seats, where he saw a deadlocked Gryffindor boy holding something that resembled a wireless microphone. Lee Jordan, a third year, who was part of the wild group that Eddie and Maria hung out with.

"Hawthorn has passed all the requirements, so Gregson had no choice but to accept her challenge. Tough luck, Danny!" Harry reassessed his initial opinion of Danny Gregson. Judging by the sudden laughter and jeers that swept the crowd, he was not as well liked as Harry had initially assumed. A small number of Gryffindor were cheering his name enthusiastically, but most of his own house had apparently turned up to see him humiliated.

"Despite only being a Fourth Year, Hawthorn has bravely decided to test her mettle against Gregson. Do us all a favour and humble the git, alright Eliza?" The crowd started laughing as Professor McGonagall began to tell Lee off. "But I'm not favouring Gryffindor! I thought that was what you wanted!" Danny looked annoyed by this biased commentary, glaring up at Jordan, but Eliza was unaffected. In fact, she hadn't removed her eyes from her opponent. Her gaze was fixed on him, as though she were a predator and he, her prey. Harry doubted she was even blinking.

Professor Hooch made her way onto the pitch and waved both duellists forward so that she could speak to them. "Hogwarts doesn't do "to the death" battles, unfortunately," They could all hear McGonagall's faint scolding in the background, but Lee continued undeterred, "but drawn blood is allowed. The duel will only end when one of the fighters can no longer continue without outside assistance." Harry's eyebrows shot up. That seemed a little brutal, didn't it? But looking around, no one in his line of sight, not even prim and proper Anthony, seemed fazed by this.

"We're not as fragile as Muggles, and we can heal our injuries a lot faster and easier than they can." Cedric said. He had been the only one to notice Harry's sudden distress. "You remind me of Eliza. She couldn't believe it when she first saw a duel either." He spoke her name with a certain level of fondness that Harry had rarely heard before.

Hooch now directed each duellist back to their initial positions, a white marking appearing near the edges of the pitch once the flying instructor (and apparent duelling referee) flicked her wand.

Once Eliza and Danny settled into their positions, the crowd quieted and the air grew tense. Everyone was waiting for Hooch to exit the pitch. When she finally did, she waved her wand in a slow motion, from pointing to the ground, to far above her head. As she did this, formerly unseen Runes glowed bright gold for a moment before disappearing and the air seemed to shimmer around the pitch. There was now an invisible force-field surrounding the duelling arena and it didn't take a genius to figure out this was done in order to protect the crowd from any errant spells.

Everyone awaited silently as Hooch climbed a short number of steps to a wooden platform on the edge of the pitch, where she could survey the barren, level, pitch from a short height. Stepping in front of a floating microphone, she raised her wand into the air before dropping it quickly. A flash of gold light went off as she shouted into the microphone "BEGIN!" and the duel began.

It started off explosively. Despite his relaxed demeanour, Danny was just as quick in casting his first spell as Eliza was. Both spells launched across the pitch at incredible speeds and collided in the centre with a devastating impact. The ground itself took most of the damage as a cloud of dirt and dust rose up and obscured each duellist from the other's vision.

This was clearly what Eliza had intended, because while Danny hesitated, she launched herself with alarming swiftness into the cloud of dust, conjuring some kind of translucent bubble around her head as she went. She's using it as a smokescreen, Harry realised, and was surprised at how engaged he was.

Before Danny could come to a decision on his next move, three large wolves launched themselves out of the smokescreen and attacked him.

To his credit, Danny didn't hesitate again. He reared his wand back and brought it down like a sword. Harry couldn't see if another jet of light had emerged from his wand, but he definitely couldn't miss the effects. The wolf that had attacked him from the front was cut in half, right down the middle from head to tail, as Danny jumped backwards with surprising athleticism, avoiding the other two that had tried to attack him from either side.

He repeated the brutal cutting spell, slicing one and then the other. The crowd groaned as the ground around him was seeped in the wolves' blood and innards, but this groan turned into gasps of shock as the air behind him seemed to shimmer. Cedric hissed and it was clear why. Eliza had used some kind of illusion spell to make herself nearly invisible, but it had worn off as she levelled her wand at Danny's back.

Danny seemed to realise he was in danger due to the crowd's reaction. The dust in front of him had begun to settle, and it was finally clear to him that his opponent was not in front of him, but behind. He began to turn, wand side first, ready to cast a defensive spell, but it was already too late. Eliza's Stunning spell caught him in the side as he began to turn, and Daniel Gregson fell to the ground in an undignified heap.

Professor Hooch brought her wand down again in a second flash of golden light and called out, "WINNER: HAWTHORN!", and Harry finally caught his breath. The entire duel had lasted less than a minute.

Neither duellist had moved their lips for a single incantation, they had both moved with impressive speed and dexterity, and had shown fine control over the spells they had cast. Despite this, neither one of them were even close to being the absolute best in the school. That was the Triumvirate, who in turn had recently suffered a humiliating defeat at the Triwizard Tournament. Harry had finally begun to realise just how far the distance was between himself and the best of his generation.

He felt something spark to life in his chest.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Later that evening, the entire school was still buzzing about the duel. From what Harry could gather, challenges for the 24th rank were numerous and typically went forward with poor attendance from the rest of the school. However, today was the first (official) duel of the school year and, for reasons still unknown to him, Danny Gregson was as unpopular as they came. Despite being the best in her year, Eliza wasn't actually expected to win. O.W.L students rarely challenged the Sentinels, as they were primarily Sixth and Seventh Years and were generally accepted to be more learned and powerful. She blew all of that out of the water today, though.

Harry could see her now, sitting alone at the Slytherin table. Well, she wasn't actually alone alone. Eliza was hounded on all sides by well-wishers and fair-weather friends. He watched her for a moment, ignoring all of them, as she resolutely ate her dinner without giving any of them the attention they so desperately wanted from her.

"You're staring at her again." Anthony said, removing the Wireless from his ears again in order to tease him. Harry forced himself not to turn red. This was the second time Anthony had caught him looking at her.

"I'm not staring, I'm observing. It's completely different."

Anthony grinned. "Call it whatever you want, it's still creepy." Harry knew he had failed this time, as he could feel his face grow warm. Looking for something to distract his much too observant friend, he turned to Terry.

"Where did Michael go? Did you chase him off with your reasonable criticisms of Quidditch again?" Terry, who had been disturbingly focused on his second helping of shepherd's pie, looked up at him. He made to speak with his mouth full, but at Anthony's warning look, he wisely swallowed his mouthful of ground beef before talking.

"Quidditch is dumb, and I will stand by that fact." Terry didn't bother to keep his voice down, and Maria, who was speaking to a girl in her year next to Harry, turned to Terry with a frown.

"Don't bother. He's prepared to die on this hill." Harry warned her off. For a second, Maria looked like she was about to tell Terry off anyway, but she gave a shrug like she couldn't be bothered and returned to her conversation.

Anthony shot Harry a grateful look, before asking, "Michael?" Terry shrugged as he returned his focus back to his plate.

"I don't know. He left a while ago, didn't he? He didn't say where, obviously." Anthony wasn't bothered by this, but Harry frowned.

"Have you two noticed him acting strangely? Going off on his own? Not speaking to others?"

Anthony gave him a wry look. "All of that is typical Michael Corner behaviour. You get used to it. Eventually." Harry considered telling him about the mirror Michael had been enraptured by but thought better of it. It really wasn't any of his business.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Harry dodged the initial binding spell like it was second nature. He flipped over the table, like he had done the last time, using it as a barrier between himself and Quirrell. But instead of hunkering down and waiting for his opponent to come to him, he decided to act first.

"Fumos!" The smokescreen spell he had practiced all week in his dorm (much to Argos' displeasure) worked even better now than it had during his practice. A torrent of dark grey smoke shot out the end of his wand, directly in the face of the incoming Quirrell.

Quirrell coughed and closed his eyes as the smoke filled the room. Unfortunately, this also obscured Harry's vision. "Stupefy!" The Professor was kind enough to telegraph his attack, but it still caught Harry off guard. He fell backward, the spell flying over his head as he lost his balance and landed on his back, legs kicking in the air like an upended tortoise.

Panicking, Harry's leg shot out, kicking the flat of the table, metal legs first, into Quirrell shins. He could hear the Professor give a slight hiss of pain as Harry rolled quietly out of the way, trying to buy himself some breathing room.

Quickly getting to his feet, Harry tried to make his way around Quirrell, one hand on the wall to feel the perimeter of the room, but he bumped into a table, giving his position away. "Incarcerous!" Quirrell's voice rang out.

Later that evening, as he would review the duel over and over in his mind, Harry would be pleased with himself, as he didn't panic the second time around. When the conjured ropes came flying at him, Harry raised his wand above his head and moved his feet in their direction. "Diffindo!" He brought his wand down as though it were a sword, slicing the thin cords in two.

Harry shot forward, the remains of the cords flying by on either side of him carried by their momentum. He hoped that by getting close to Quirrell, he would be able to catch him off guard. "Flipendo!"

Harry wasn't entirely sure what had happened next. One second, he was certain of his imminent triumph, the next he was waking up on the floor in pain. "Argh," he groaned, the back of his head had collided with the hard floor, "What happened?" He sat up slowly.

The room was still smoky, but Harry was certain he caught a glimpse of Quirrell cradling his arm in pain. "Are you alright?" He asked, partly concerned, but mostly eager to know if he had actually landed a proper attack on his Professor (the table didn't count).

Quirrell vanished the smoke with ease. "I think I must have strained something; I was holding myself back so hard." He laughed at Harry's irritated scoff. "Here." With just a wave of his wand, the growing bump on the back of Harry's head disappeared along with the dull, throbbing, pain.

"Your attack was so well done, I forgot I was dealing with a First Year. My counter hit you much too hard. Are you sure you're alright?" Harry nodded, smiling, as he decided to take the compliment for what it was. "I couldn't help but notice how familiar your strategy was. Were you inspired by Saturday's duel?"

Harry felt as if Quirrell had seen right through him. "Was it that obvious?"

"Distracting your enemy is a simple, and therefore popular, tactic in the world of Professional Duelling. I only guessed it was Saturday's duel that inspired you, as I am your only teacher and the Duelling tournaments popular enough for the Odeon take place during the late spring and summer months."

Harry shrugged, as he tried to downplay his excitement. "I wouldn't go so far as inspired, but it did give me some ideas."

Quirrell smiled, seeing right through him. "Clearly." He paused, as though he had realised something, before continuing. "Do you realise what your mistake was?"

Harry grimaced. He had realised his mistake as soon as he had done it. "My smokescreen. It obscured my vision as well as yours." Quirrell shook his head.

"My eyes might have been impaired, but that does not mean I couldn't see." Harry couldn't make heads or tails of this statement, but before he could ask for a clarification, Quirrell continued.

"The Smokescreen Spell is essential for any wizard. You did well on mastering it so early, as it will be on your W.O.M.B.A.T exams." He informed him, making his way to the teacher's desk, gesturing Harry to take a seat at the front row. "However, it is intended to assist in an escape. Do you know why?"

"The defensive spells in the W.O.M.B.A.T curriculum are intended for the use against Muggles." Harry continued only when Quirrell said nothing, clearly expecting more. "It was decreed an essential spell for students, especially Muggle-born students, to master by Magister Baltierra. Witch huntings were still common at the time and many young witches and wizards were captured by the few hunters whose eyes could pierce the Veil." Still Quirrell said nothing.

Harry continued. "There were eleven such spells. Jinxes to incapacitate hunters, spells to hide your tracks, cover your scent and blend into your surroundings. There is also the Anemoi spell that sends your location to the nearest Auror Citadel, although it isn't as accurate in magical areas." Harry stopped, hoping Quirrell was pleased with that much, because it was all he knew on the matter.

Fortunately, he was. "Looks like someone is getting an Outstanding on their end of term exam." He clapped his hands together once, happily. "Fumos is a good spell for your arsenal, but it was designed for escape, not for duels. You should remember that whenever you try to adapt what you learn in the classroom to a fight." With that he got back to his feet. "Are you ready to continue?"

It chafed his pride, but Harry was forced to shake his head. "Covering the entire room in smoke took more out of me than I thought it would." He had been more than happy to sit when Quirrell had told him to.

The Defence professor grimaced. "Are the Basic Three still giving you trouble?" Harry shrugged, more than a little humiliated. Quirrell kept calling them basic, but Harry could do nothing more than shoot out ineffective jets of light from his wand when he tried to cast them.

Quirrell sighed. "Do you know why I keep asking you to practice spells over and over again?" Harry looked up at him, not sure where he was going with this. "It's not to get you to master the spells. Well, that is actually part of it, obviously, but it's mostly to make you stronger."

Harry shook his head slowly. "I don't follow."

"Did you ever use magic willingly growing up?" Harry nodded, and Quirrell gave a pleased nod, as though he were impressed but would have been disappointed if he said no. "Did you ever notice that as time went on it became easier?"

Harry set his jaw. He really hoped he wasn't about to say what he thought he was about to say. "Was it because I was getting older?" He asked cautiously and was relieved when Quirrell shook his head.

"That's a common misconception, that power comes with age. It doesn't. Power comes through training and discipline." He clarified before Harry could interrupt. "The Mana Reserves in your body is a blend between the mental, physical and spiritual energies you naturally exude. As your mind gains knowledge, you gain power. As your body grows stronger, you will develop proficiency. And as you dedicate your entire being to a philosophy, your Mana will dedicate itself entirely to you."

A small part of Harry knew Quirrell was dumbing this down for him, giving him this important information in a way that would make sense to an unlearned eleven-year-old, but Harry didn't care. For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, a clear path forward was presented to him.

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Even though his classes were still hard, Harry was no longer disheartened. While his slowly developing duelling skills had yet to translate over to his classwork, he now knew it was only a matter of time. It didn't take long for others to notice his new attitude.

"Are you alright, Harry?" Terry asked, as they made their way to Lunch after a particularly gruelling Transfiguration class.

"I'm fine. Why do you ask?"

Terry shrugged. "You're normally grumpy after class." Anthony kept his head facing forward, but Harry could see his eyes flitting over. He had noticed as well.

Harry didn't take offence. "I've decided to not let my failures get to me. I could go back to being a grouch if it bothers you, though." He smiled as they both hastily assured him that they liked the change. Harry honestly hadn't realised how awful he was to be around after class.

With this new attitude pushing him forward, October was much more pleasant than the month that had preceded it. The entire month passed by in a breeze and soon it was Halloween.

Halloween, as it turned out, was a big deal at Hogwarts. Not because it was a special holiday for wizards or anything, (not that he knew about at least), but because it was the beginning of the social calendar, which was a big deal to all the students.

Slytherin House had won the House Cup last year, so they had the "honour" of organising the Halloween Masquerade Ball. Harry's stomach had dropped when he had first heard about this. All he knew about Masquerade Balls was from the trashy romantic novels Lupin had kept hidden in his locked desk drawer. He wasn't sure if he was prepared to deal with the scandalous shenanigans that seemed to occur whenever masks were involved in a formal setting. Mercifully, it seemed he would be spared from such embarrassing events, at least for a couple more years.

"The Ball is only for O.W.L and N.E.W.T students." Penelope was kind enough to keep her voice as low as Harry's when he had gone to her for advice on what to wear. "You W.O.M.B.A.T kids have a less formal party, in the Small Hall on the first floor." She paused. "You do know all of this is written on the notice board, right?" In fact, Harry did not know that.

The Slytherins really outdid themselves when the big day finally arrived. The windows had been charmed to block sunlight and the torch scones were lit during the day, there were floating Jack-O'-Lanterns along the corridors, screeching bats that swooped low above students' heads and the statues and suits of armour that lined the walls of the school let out scary sounds whenever there was no one to look at them directly. More than once that day, Harry jumped and tried to pinpoint which inanimate object had just screamed like it was being murdered. All of it set a certain atmosphere, and Harry found himself just as excited as everyone else was for tonight. After all, if this was just the decorations, what was going to happen during the actual events?

After classes were done, the Ravenclaw Quidditch team had a scheduled practice. No one was pleased by this, not even Robert.

"I know you don't want to be here. I don't even want to be here. But if we skip practice today, we'll regret it next month." No one was buying this, and they continued to argue with him. Even Marcus, who always took the Captain's side, now joined in with the others.

Finally, Robert gave up. "Fine, you can go. Just don't blame me when we lose against Hufflepuff next month."

Despite this sombre send off, everyone went back to the changing rooms with cheers. Harry went to his locker and pulled out his clothes. He had never celebrated Halloween before, as he had no one to celebrate with. He had told himself it was childish, dressing up in costumes and playing pretend, but now he was looking forward to the party.

Harry had been disappointed to learn from his friends that costumes were a purely Muggle tradition though. Apparently, witches and wizards dressing up as vampires or werewolves was considered distasteful when such people actually existed. Who knew?

Harry changed into the smartest clothes he had brought to school; A white collarless shirt, black hose and jacket, with the collar popped up in a way that he hoped made him look cool, instead of a prat, and a pair of long, black, buckled boots that Anthony had offered to lend him. Harry would have liked to purchase something more appropriate (he had gotten a look at what Anthony was wearing; An actual bow tie) but First Years weren't allowed into Hogsmeade until January, and he didn't trust owl-order when it came to clothes. Still, looking in the mirror, he was pleased with the end result. It was an odd mashup of magical and mundane clothing, and he thought it suited him nicely.

Glancing around, he saw that Michael was the only one in the room as the other boys had left their far fancier masquerade costumes in their dorms. Fortunately, Michael was actually wearing clothes even more casual than Harry was, blue jeans and a sweatshirt. It was only as Harry began to make his way to the party, did he realise Michael was not following from a distance as he usually did after practice. Harry sighed as he realised why the other boy was dressed so informally.

Entering the room with the bronze ornate mirror, he said, "Back again, Michael?" Harry was amused at how quickly his teammate leapt up from his assumed cross-legged position in front of the mirror and whirled to face him.

"What are you doing here? Did you follow me?" He asked both questions in a single breath, clearly flustered.

"Obviously. I wouldn't think you were vain enough to stare at your own reflection for hours on end, but here we are Narcissus." In fact, Harry had never thought he was vain in the classic sense and believed it even less now that he looked at Michael properly. His curly blonde hair was unkempt, and his eyes had dark circles underneath them. He clearly wasn't concerned with his appearance.

"I'm not looking at my reflection." He denied, before his face lit up in sudden comprehension. "What do you see when you look in the mirror? Here," he moved to one side, "Stand where I'm standing."

His curiosity viciously killing his better judgement, Harry stepped in front of the mirror and whirled around as soon as he had done so. He and Michael were alone in the room, but the reflection showed only himself and a group of adults standing behind him. Harry recognised the two standing closest to him almost instinctively.

On his right, there was a tall, broad shouldered man, with thick curling black hair and warm hazel eyes behind his browline glasses. His face was all fine angles and sharp features, and he had an indefinable air of mischief around him that inexplicably reminded Harry of Terry. The beaming smile he wore was only overshadowed by his wife's.

She stood to his left, slender and small, hardly half a head taller than Harry was now, and her skin was as pale and clear as his own. Something about her oval shaped face and the almond curve of her bright green eyes reminded him painfully of Petunia, but his Aunt had never looked at him the way this woman now did. Her long, thick, dark red hair hung over her face like a curtain, which she pushed back, revealing a warm, loving smile; It perfectly mimicked the only clear memory he had of her.

It was that thought which snapped him out of it. Mimicked.

Harry turned to Michael, furious. "What the hell is this?" His voice came out more choked than he would have liked, but the idea that his most precious memories had been intruded on, stolen from him, had left him too angry to care.

Michael wasn't intimidated in the slightest. In fact, he looked perfectly serene, as though Harry's furious response to the mirror had calmed him down. "It's called the Mirror of Erised. Legend says that a powerful wizard gave it to a warmongering king as a tribute, when one of his battles had killed his eldest son. But it was a trap. The king spent the rest of his life in front of it, thinking it told him the secret of his future conquests. He ordered his servants to not disturb him while he gazed into it, and he died there, wasting away."

"It can't tell the future." Harry had to be absolutely certain of that much. The idea that his parents were alive, but had abandoned him for some inexplicable reason, was an old fear of his, and not one he could go back to. Not now. Not when he had allowed himself to believe that they had loved him enough to die protecting him. To do so would be to irreparably damage him.

Michael smiled wryly. "No. It just drives us mad with our heart's desire." Despite his smile, he looked terribly sad, and it was that more than anything, which cooled his anger.

"Did you see your parents too?" He wasn't sure what drove him to ask that, to reveal what his own heart's desire was. Perhaps the sudden emotional upheaval had left him unbalanced, but he knew he was right. It might be one explanation for how Michael and Robert could be brothers but have different last names.

Michael's serenity cracked as his jaw clenched. "Not as they are. As they should have been." There was something strange about the way he said that, as if his anger was only a thin veil. He was being defensive, Harry realised, as though he believed he was being accused of something terrible.

"As they are?" Harry shook his head. "Sorry. I thought you were an orphan too." Michael blinked and then his expression loosened.

"No, I'm sorry. I forgot you grew up Muggle. Of course, you wouldn't know." He said nothing else, but he seemed to be breathing easier than he was a moment ago. Harry really wanted to ask, but he could sense now was not the moment for it.

"Come on. We should get to the party." Harry told him, emphasising the word we. He may not like Michael, but that didn't mean he wanted him to waste away in front of a cursed mirror.

Michael nodded dully, as though the Small Hall was the last place he wanted to be. Even so he led the way out of the room. Harry gave the claw footed mirror one last, lingering look. He memorised the faces of his mother and father, the less clear images of his cousins, grandparents and other relatives, just as he had memorised all of their names. Then he left the room after Michael.

The two boys walked in silence, side by side, an awkward air around them. It wasn't every day your heart's desire was revealed to a classmate. Harry knew he should say something to clear the air, or at least to threaten Michael into keeping his mouth shut, but before he could say anything, everything went to hell.

It all happened so fast, and Harry knew that the only thing that had saved them was his two months training under Quirrell.

A shadow loomed over the boys, rapidly growing smaller under the flickering light of the torches. The sudden breeze against the top of their heads let Harry know that something was about to hit them, fast. It was instinct that made him shove Michael to one side, and, using the slight momentum he gained from that, to throw himself in the opposite direction.

A giant wooden club struck the stone floor, just where they had been a second ago. Perhaps it was the fragments of stone, the club's flying wood chips or even the force of Harry's initial shove, but Michael let out a loud, pained grunt which only served to gain him the sole attention of their attacker.

Later, Harry couldn't even explain to himself what made him do it, but in that moment, he didn't think about it at all. Snatching a fist sized stone fragment off the ground he threw it right into their assailant's ear. It was only when it turned towards him, did Harry finally get a good look at it under the flickering light of the torch sconce.

It was humanoid, twelve feet tall, with an abnormally small head for its large body. Its skin was a disgusting, bumpy, mottled grey and its dark bug eyes fixed on Harry with a predator's cold cruelty. Even though he was probably about to die, Harry found himself strangely grateful the beast was at least wearing a loincloth.

Strange where your mind goes during a crisis.

The beast raised the remains of its club, ready to turn him into a grease spot, but Harry was already moving. Compared to Quirrell, or even the Bludgers Eddie and Maria loved to send his way, his attacker was terribly slow. Scrambling to his feet and jumping out of the way, the club missed him by a country mile.

Michael had only gotten to his feet and was looking at the monster like it was the stuff of nightmares. Harry snapped him out of it, shouting, "Needle Spell!" He didn't have time to explain further, as the club was heading his way again. This time, he held his ground. Raising his wand in a movement that had, by now, become second nature to him, he brought it back down, roaring, "DIFFINDO!"

The club was split in two, right down the middle, and clattered onto the ground. I love that spell, Harry thought. Thankfully, while he was busy admiring the strength of his own Severing Charm, Michael required no further orders. "Acusignis!" His voice was still obviously terrified, but he managed to keep it steady when he spoke the incantation. The two halves that remained of their attacker's club were too large for him to turn into needles, but their tips turned sharp and metallic, which was all Harry needed.

He had not even gotten the slightest reaction when he had attempted the Levitation Charm in this morning's Charms Class, so he decided it was best to fall back on an old reliable and hope for the best. "Flipendo! Flipendo!"

His Knockback Jinxes struck their targets, sending their improvised spears into rapid vertical spins right at their attacker's too small head. The first spear hit the beast on the forehead, wood side first, harmlessly clattering to the ground. The second was about to miss the head completely, but the monster looked down at the piece of wood that had just struck him as it fell to the ground, confusedly.

It was the last thing it ever saw.

The second spear entered the grey giant's eyeball, sharp metal tip first, with such force and speed that it was killed instantly. Their attacker crumpled to the ground, dead, a confused expression frozen on its mottled face.

There was a moment of silence, which was only broken when Michael began to swear. "What the actual-!"

As his fellow Ravenclaw began to turn the air around him blue, Harry stumbled over to the nearest windowsill, sitting down before his shaking legs gave way. Now that the fight was over, the adrenaline that had kept him alive was now turning him into a jittery mess. Or perhaps he was shaking because he had just killed something. The fact that the blood pooling on the ground was a deep blue instead of red, did extraordinarily little to make him less afraid. Was he going to be arrested? Was he going to Azkaban?

Harry's inner turmoil must have been turning into an outer turmoil because, when Michael had finally calmed down, he looked at Harry warily and asked him, "Are you alright? You're shaking." Before he could answer, the sound of incoming footsteps became impossible to ignore.

From around the corner, McGonagall, Flitwick and Quirrell came running, only to immediately stop at the sight that had greeted them. Harry could hardly blame them as it must have been quite the sight. Two blood splattered eleven-year-olds and a dead whatever that thing was, isn't a sight you'd expect at a typical boarding school. But then again, Harry remembered as McGonagall swiftly regained her composure and began to speak, Hogwarts was not typical in any way.

"Are you both alright?" When they told her that they were, she asked, "What happened here?" Michael clenched his jaw again and looked angry in the way Harry now knew meant he was about to get defensive. Before he could say something stupid and get them both in trouble, Harry decided to be the one who spoke for them.

"We were on our way back from Quidditch Practice, headed to the party, when this thing came out of nowhere and attacked us." Harry quickly explained how they had defeated it and barrelled onwards with questions before the teachers could ask why they were on the second floor when the party was taking place on the first. "How did it even sneak up on us? How did it even get into the castle?" Quirrell was quick to answer both of his questions, cutting him off before a veritable stream of them could get out of his mouth.

"Trolls are silent predators, it's how they hunt in the wild. As for how it got into the castle…" He trailed off and gave his colleagues an awkward look. Now that he knew his students were safe, Flitwick began to shake in silent laughter while McGonagall turned to Quirrell looking both furious and vindicated.

"Do you see now what could have happened? A handful of first year jinxes and spells is all that saved us from two injured students, Quirinus!" As she continued on with her tirade on the increasingly browbeaten Quirrell, Flitwick regained control of himself and approached the boys, carefully making his way around the dead Troll.

"Are you boys alright? No injuries?" Harry shook his head, but Michael began to complain.

"Harry shoved me headfirst into the wall. If he didn't save my life, I swear I would have thrown him out the window." Flitwick gave him a reproachful look, but Harry saw his lips twitch. With just a wave of his wand, Michael stopped complaining about the bump in his head that only he believed existed.

Harry had more pressing concerns. "Professor? That thing, the Troll, was it, you know, sapient?" Both Flitwick and Michael turned to stare at him, but Harry continued, undeterred. "It's just, it was smart enough to have a weapon and-" Flitwick stopped him right there.

"It was a Beast. Do not mourn for it." His voice was sharp and chiding, as though Harry had suggested something taboo. Harry had never heard his kindly Head of House speak in such a way and was taken aback that this tone was being used against him.

Mercifully, Michael decided to save him. "He's Muggle raised, Professor. Remember?" Flitwick looked abashed.

"Yes, yes, of course." He said, now awkward. "Why don't you two join the party? You wouldn't want to miss the opening." With that mysterious hint, he shooed them away from what Harry was still sure was a crime scene.

When the two boys walked around the corner and out of earshot, Harry spoke. "That's it? I killed someone and now I'm supposed to go to a party like nothing happened?"

"Not someone, something. Trolls are Dark Creatures. Beasts. You can't treat them like Humans." Harry scowled at Michael's unsympathetic tone.

"What would you know about the Dark Arts anyway? You never pay attention in Quirrell's class." It was true. While Michael had heeded Anthony's warning and paid attention in every class, Defence Against the Dark Arts was the only exception.

Michael looked annoyed. "You're lucky you just saved my life, otherwise I really would throw you out the window." Harry glared right back at him, refusing to be intimidated. While he had never cast such powerful spells before, he still felt like he had enough energy to hold his own against an underachiever like Michael. However, instead of actually turning this into a fight, Michael backed down first.

"Whatever. It's not like anyone else wouldn't tell you if you asked." Harry did not mention that Robert had, in fact, not told him anything when he had asked. "My mother is a Death Eater." He said bluntly.

Harry's eyes widened, but Michael continued before he could say a word. "She was caught before your parents even ended the war. She's been in Azkaban my whole life and no, I don't remember her." He said all of this quickly and without emotion, as though he were used to explaining himself.

There was something about his reaction that Harry wasn't getting. "I know that there are students in this school with Death Eaters for relatives." He said this, thinking of Malfoy and Myrose. "Why is it a big deal that you do too? You avoid everyone like you expect people to attack you."

Michael's voice shook. "She wasn't just a Death Eater. She was one of the Twelve Acolytes."

"Oh." Harry's whispered response said everything. The Twelve Acolytes of Lord Voldemort had been the most fearsome warriors of The Knights of Walpurgis. They had been the lieutenants of the Dark Lord, the generals of his dark army and some of them had almost been as feared by the magical populace as Voldemort himself. The identity of Michael's mother was obvious to him now, and Harry felt like a fool for not making the simple connection earlier. "Elissa Corner was your mother?" Michael flinched at the mere mention of her name. It was as though Harry had just shouted Voldemort's name in his ear.

When he nodded, Harry had to forcibly stop himself from lurching away. Just as he could hardly believe that he was the son of two legendary heroes, his mind could not connect Michael, petty and competitive Michael, to a witch as evil as Elissa Corner. Michael, with his blonde hair and stocky build, would have fit in far better at Number Four Privet Drive than Harry ever had. He could almost imagine Vernon teaching him to play rugby in the back garden just as he had with Dudley. How could a boy so ordinary be related to such a monster?

"My father is not a Death Eater. In fact, he was married to another woman when my mother doused him with a love potion. It was a scandal when she was finally arrested and the Aurors found me in her home. It was an even bigger one when they confirmed who my father was." Harry raised his eyebrows, and Michael proceeded to explain further. "Half of my father's side of the family are war heroes. Martyrs really. And I've got a relative that's quite high up in the British Ministry." He answered Harry's unasked question. "I've never met them, but I've been told my very existence was enough to kill their chances at becoming Minister." Harry wondered who would go out of their way to tell him that.

It clicked in Harry's mind as they began to descend the staircase. "That's why you avoid everyone, isn't it? At Pendle's other kids must have brought up your… err…" Harry trailed off, as he didn't have a polite way to say what he wanted to.

"My father's assault? My conception? Or the fact that I'm a bastard?" Michael's voice was cold.

"Do people even care if a kid is born out of wedlock anymore? That's so old fashioned." Harry's voice was weak.

"Muggles might not care, but wizards do." Michael kept his eyes focused on the path ahead of them. Harry was determined to make sense of this, to understand his self-isolation, for reasons he wasn't even aware of.

"You don't remember her. You have no connection to her but blood. No one has any right to treat you badly because of what she did." Harry was firm in that conviction, at least until Michael began to laugh humourlessly.

"Right, and I suppose everyone treats you like the Great Uniter reborn because of your prodigious talent?" Michael scoffed. "It has nothing to do with your parents? You of all people aren't allowed to tell me that blood doesn't matter."

There was something odd in his voice just then, something that forced Harry to remember what he had said in front of the mirror:

Not as they are. As they should have been.

It was only because of the horrible assault on his father that Michael even existed. Did that mean that his heart's desire was a world where he had never been born?

That idea was so awful, that Harry knew he had to say something, anything, to make Michael him see the value in his own existence. He spoke then, words flowing steadily and with little thought from his lips. "I didn't know about any of this, magic, the war, even my mum and dad's names until about three months ago." He could see, in his peripheral, that Michael had turned to face him. "I never fit in at my old school and bullies, you know what they're like, they can smell insecurity and vulnerability from a mile away. The less said about the relatives I lived with, the better."

He turned his head to look at Michael in the eye. "I saw you in Diagon Alley, you know. Running out of Ollivander's." Michael looked more than a little mortified that Harry had seen him in tears. "I saw how your family chased after you. I know that Robert worries about you. I don't know what it's like to be in your shoes, but I'm kind of jealous you have a family that cares so much about you."

Harry didn't regret for a moment opening up like that. If it backfired on him and the other boy began to laugh at his misfortune and poor upbringing, Harry could bear it, only because he had always wished a peer would say something as empathetic to him.

Michael didn't laugh. He didn't say anything as they entered through the large doors of the Small Hall.

The large crowd of eleven- to thirteen-year-olds in formal wear, were sat on rows of benches along the walls. Professors Sprout and Archibald, the chaperones, waved them in and told them to join the others before the show began. Harry spotted Anthony and Terry on the front row and moved to join them. It was only at their surprised expressions did he notice that Michael had followed after him. After an awkward moment, they made room for them both, sliding along the bench.

Lisa grunted as Terry squished her against Padma, creasing her lovely dress in the process. "Don't push me!"

"I wouldn't have to push if you left me any room!"

Padma cut in, sounding appalled, but her smirk let Harry know she was just stirring it up to create drama. "Did you just call her fat? I think he just called you fat!" She told Lisa, who turned to Terry with a dark expression.

"I would never call Lisa fat!" Terry defended himself, before deciding, inexplicably, to dig himself deeper. "Big boned perhaps, but never fat!"

Deciding to leave their smallest friend to his dark fate, Anthony turned away from him and raised his eyebrows as Harry, and then Michael, squeezed in next to him. "You alright?" He asked, which made Harry check himself for any signs of troll's blood that might have remained on his clothes. Of course, it wasn't there. Flitwick had got it all.

Anthony continued, looking bemused as Harry checked himself for troll brains. "It's just that, we don't usually see Michael with anyone unless he absolutely has to." He said this with his voice raised slightly, so that said boy could hear. Michael still said nothing, and before Harry could decide whether or not to tell Anthony that they had almost died ten minutes ago, there was a sudden shout.

"Oi! Ravenclaw just got two hundred points!" Wayne Hopkins of Hufflepuff shouted as he ran into the hall with his fly down. He ignored Sprout's carrying whisper to pull it up, as he continued. "I just saw it when I was coming back from the loo!"

"We can all tell you've been to the loo, mate." Terry gasped out, still trapped in Lisa's headlock. "Pull up your bloody fly." There were snickers as Wayne hastily did so, his ears red. Others were more focused on the news he had delivered.

"Two hundred points? For what?" Anthony's question mimicked others around the hall, but he grew suspicious when Harry remained silent. "Do you two have something to do with this?"

Harry tried to play it cool. "Maybe."

Anthony looked interested. "What could be worth two hundred points? Did you kill a Cockatrice?" He snorted at his own joke.

"Nothing so dangerous. It was only a twelve-foot-tall Troll and his giant wooden club." Harry said, airily.

Michael snorted, and when Harry and Anthony turned to look at him, he slowly started to laugh. It must have been infectious because Harry quickly joined in. Anthony's look of complete bafflement and the confused attention of the students around them, only made them laugh even harder. They tried to get themselves under control when Professor Archibald came over to tell them off, hands pressed over their mouths or biting their fists to try and shut themselves up, but they failed miserably.

It was only once the torches were extinguished and a troop of glowing white skeletons began to dance at the centre of the hall, did the two boys finally stop laughing, sides hurting and tears stinging their eyes, with only the occasional hiccough breaking the sound of the orchestra. The two boys were determinedly avoiding each other's eyes, afraid that they might lose control again.

Michael whispered. "If I start up again, I'm gonna piss myself." Harry had to bite his lip, in order to swallow his chuckles. Ignoring the complaints of the audience behind him, he forced Anthony to switch seats with him, because Archibald looked like he was ready to kick them out if they started laughing again.

Maybe it had happened in front of the Mirror of Erised, or their fight with the Troll, or even during the much too serious conversation on the way to the party; Perhaps it was just in the silly moment where they guffawed at a silly joke that no one else understood, but at some point tonight, Harry and Michael had come to understand one another. Through that, they became the best of friends.

Author's Note

A theme I'm borrowing from Black Clover is the admiration of strength.

The reason Dumbledore is being a jerk to the Triumvirate, the reason the Sentinels get special treatment, is all because respect for power is the most important thing to the Wizarding World I'm writing. There's a reason why they call him Lord Voldemort instead of the jerk who keeps killing us.

It was always weird to me that in canon Harry and Neville were the only orphans of the war. In this story, I'm gonna spread the misery.

Whenever I write a character with a messed up back story, like Michael's, it gonna be important for them as a character and the story as a whole.

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